This slow November burns into
As the last tree leaves are falling, pressed onto the city pavements.
And winter mists of morning and of dusk are rising now.
And early winter afternoons are brief and bleed so quickly
when sudden darkness comforts and appals.
The last migrating birds are calling.
We sense the Earth draw down her winter shades,
return to liberating nakedness, and gathering.
The trees rich brown and ebony calligraphy
are printed on luminescent skies.
Lest we forget, this is a sacred time
when mystery converges.
In profound darkness
a star shines bright in still dead of deepest night.
Illuminates a sleeping infant child.
Light of the world.
Vulnerable, naked, mild.
And upon a tender mother,
humble long suffering animals of the field.
Held in this equal light.
This is an urgent time,
when we are asked to see that child
is you and he and she and I.
Lives on in every human soul,
even perceived as evil; unblemished and whole.
If only we would know.
We would put down all our enmities,
and all our weapons.
The terrible knives, the drones of war.
And every armaments factory would close forever.
For everything and everyone that lives is
c) IDF Andrew 24th December 2014